


Witch Takes Knight

by Jaina_Pridemoore



Series: Queens of the Damned [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Forsaken Jaina Proudmoore, Pre-Femslash, Undead Jaina Proudmoore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaina_Pridemoore/pseuds/Jaina_Pridemoore
Summary: The Frostwitch aids in the liberation of Lordaeron.The Banshee Queen rises.The living... might be a problem.Undeath is complicated. Following the Dark Lady isn't.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore & Sylvanas Windrunner
Series: Queens of the Damned [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904173
Comments: 22
Kudos: 184





	Witch Takes Knight

It was the silence, Sylvanas decided. 

She had acclimated to the sounds of the Scourge. Gurgles and moans and feral shrieks, dragging footsteps, unstable staggering… 

But the Frostwitch, out of combat, was as quiet as one of her Rangers. Yes, part of it was that she didn’t seem to care much for walking, but… 

“How?” 

Sylvanas looked over. 

The Frostwitch— _Proudmoore_ — floated down the corridor beside her, bare toes dangling an inch off the floor. Her tattered robes wafted and rippled around her, weighted down only by the cold metal of her corset and pauldrons and the chains that bound them. That metal glowed with unpleasantly familiar runes… though not so brightly as her eyes— they may as well have been spheres of ice, illuminated from within by the same fearsome power she had unleashed in the throne room. Her hair floated as well, faint golden streaks hidden in the white, starkly pale around the ashen, frostbitten blue of her skin… 

But that skin was _intact._ No bones jutted from her toes or fingers, and her face, though gaunt, was not emaciated. 

“He is… weakened. You said.” 

Her voice was deceptively quiet. Uncertain. Barely more than a rasping whisper. 

“But not how _you_ … did it,” she said. “Freed me.” 

“I didn’t.” Sylvanas returned her gaze to the passageway before them. “You freed yourself. I merely provided you the opportunity." 

_Made you aware of the opportunity_ would have been more truthful. But her sorcerers had loosened the Frostwitch's bonds a bit, and gratitude was still her only currency here. 

The torches that lined their way fluttered in what she could only assume was a very cold breeze. 

Guttural cries and clashing blades echoed up through the catacombs. 

“Teach me?” said the Frostwitch. 

She considered that for a moment. 

“I will,” she decided, “once we have secured the city.” 

The torches flickered around them. 

“You and I were exceptions. We were bound directly to His will, while most of the others are controlled by the Nathrezim. There is no ritual necessary. Every dreadlord felled is hundreds freed.” 

Quiet. Echoing battlecries. Metal on metal. 

“Well then,” rasped Proudmoore. 

Every torch in the hallway guttered out at once, leaving only the icy blue glow of her eyes to light the way— and as Sylvanas watched they glowed brighter, reflecting off the frost that crept across her meager armor and swirled around her. The crystal head of her staff lit up as well, tiny flashes of power snapping between it and the black metal that caged it—

Then there was another, greater flash, a burst of magic strong enough for even Sylvanas’ deadened nerves to feel— 

—and Proudmoore was at the end of the corridor, gliding around the bend and deeper into the catacombs. 

“Cover her,” said Sylvanas. 

A half-dozen Dark Rangers rushed past her, swift and silent. 

Sylvanas quickened her steps… and wondered who she had just allied with. 

That terrible power, the mindless _ease_ with which she tore through scores of free undead— was that why Arthas bound her directly to his will, rather than letting one of the Nathrezim handle her? 

Was that why he left her to guard his prized capital? 

Other than the frostbite-blue skin, her body was almost perfectly preserved. It could have just been a side effect of the ice magic, but… 

Well. Sylvanas was no expert on human aging, but she had clearly died young. 

And _Proudmoore_ was not the name of a commoner. 

The daughter of a ruling house, of age with _Him,_ protected from decaying… 

The skeleton of a story was beginning to take shape in Sylvanas mind. 

That was rarely a good thing, these days.

She refocused on the question of what, exactly, Proudmoore _was_ now. 

She had seen that sort of magic before, levitation and all… but liches didn’t tend to inhabit their original bodies. 

...then again, neither did banshees. 

There was also the girl’s mind to consider. The speed with which she recovered her ability to speak and reason. She barely even went catatonic. She probably would later, once things died down a bit, but still. 

And the others were already watching her with fear and respect. It wasn’t the raw reverence with which they looked at Sylvanas, but perhaps… 

No. 

Hope was a double-edged blade. She would not take it up again. 

Proudmoore was a valuable ally. That was all. She would watch her closely, discern her nature, cultivate her loyalty, and then… 

Then she would savor the look on Arthas’ face as his two most prized possessions tore him limb from wretched limb. 

_Go, Frostwitch._

_Show me what you are._

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


The Frostwitch wondered, as she sent a burst of icy flechettes through Balnazzar’s wing, why Dreadlords were so _big._ Why lumber around with all that muscle when you weren’t going to do any of your own work? 

(Unless forced to, at least).

Then he stepped on the little rogue that had smiled at her earlier, and things got… _blurry,_ for a while. 

Ghouls shrieked, felfire flared, bodies broke, and razor frost burst howling from the hollow within her. 

Then the Dark Lady was there. 

She cut mercilessly through the chaos, firing arrows that burst into flesh-melting violet flame, dancing out of harm’s way, snatching the limbs off of the enthralled with flashes of her clawed gauntlets— 

Dreadlords were wily, stubborn foes. Hard to corral. Harder yet to kill, even with a punctured wing and weeping wounds. 

But following the Dark Lady was easy. 

Her voice was cold, confident command. It pierced through the wind and the shrieks and the clamor of battle, but it did not pierce Jaina’s skull, did not bind her soul, did not _force_ her. 

She had chosen this. 

She had _chosen,_ and it was— was—

A lot. 

A lot to ponder later, when the bastard was dead. When the city was _free._

So she followed, and cast, and bit by bloody bit, they drove the Dreadlord back. 

At some point her frost began to darken. She wasn’t sure when, or how long it took her to notice. She thought — _assumed,_ that was the word— that it was blood, or… whatever became of blood months after death. 

But then Varimathras smote his brother, and it was over. 

She let go of her frost, and focused on closing whatever it was that kept the blizzard inside her. 

Thousands of tiny ice crystals were left drifting in the smokey breeze, glittering with orange light. 

_Fire_ light. 

On the blood-soaked ground before her, sickly green flames crackled and popped over Balnazzar’s corpse… but _around_ her, beyond the stone walls she was only just now noticing, orange flames were devouring shingled rooftops, pouring thick black smoke into the darkling sky. 

The _sky._

When had she last… how long had she been down there? Guarding a throne that no longer _meant_ anything? 

_“At ease,”_ Sylvanas murmured, suddenly close beside her. 

The Frostwitch could not have said why she heard _Sylvanas_ , now, instead of the Dark Lady. But she did. 

_“We are not finished yet,"_ came that voice, quiet and... almost _soft—_ _"But now is the time to watch and wait for the moment to strike."_

She looked around. 

Varimathras, for all his protests, simply stared down at his brother’s burning carcass. Up the steps beyond them, the doors to the keep hung open, battered and scarred and splattered with dark fluids. 

Around them stood free undead. Hundreds of them, looking on in still silence. 

Their eyes —and sockets— no longer glowed blue. Instead there was dim yellow, and green, and the Frostwitch could have sworn she saw red, red like the Dark Lady’s, but then it was gone. 

Maybe her mind had found a new trick to play on her. That... might be nice. A new game to play with herself… 

Sylvanas stepped past her— and then she was the Dark Lady once more. Armor splattered with black blood, hair grey with ash, burning eyes surveying those she had freed…

Yes. Dark Lady. 

Though the whispers of _Queen_ hadn’t stopped. 

The Dark Lady turned and strode towards the last living Dreadlord. 

A new chorus of shrieks and howls echoed through the city. More corpses crying out in relief and horror at their newfound freedom. 

Something inside the Frostwitch wanted to answer. But it was a dim, tired thing. It was enough to simply feel it. 

The breathing of the living grated on her. Heavy, labored breaths. As if it were so _torturous_ to have beating hearts and lungs that worked without being forced to. 

Jaina turned to look at them. 

Grand Marshal Garithos hadn’t gotten very dirty, somehow. 

He stood at the head of his diminished forces, red-faced and… wet? 

No. _Sweaty._ She’d forgotten what that was like. 

His men didn’t look much better. Flushed faces and shining armor smeared with red and black and murky green. Breathing heavily. Shifting uneasily.

So much movement. So much _noise._

“Ranger-General,” the Grand Marshall called. 

The Dark Lady stopped halfway to Varimathras. 

“That woman,” she said evenly, “is dead and gone.”

“All the same.” He stepped forward. “You have our thanks for freeing us from… the other one. And for your part in this victory. Now it is time for you and your… _followers_ to leave the city. As we agreed.” 

...oh. Interesting. 

The Frost— _Jaina_ looked to Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas was still watching Balnazzar burn. What was left of him, anyway. Felfire worked quickly. 

“And why,” mused the Dark Lady, “would we do that?” 

Garithos’ breaths got louder, _in out in out,_ no crackling or wheezing or having to think about it— 

“Look around you,” she said, “at the people of Lordaeron.” 

He hesitated, but obeyed. 

Hundreds of dimly glowing eyes looked back. 

Claws and jaws and rusty blades dripped on the cobblestones. 

“You would ask them to **_abandon_ **the home they have only just reclaimed?”

His face sort of… _tightened,_ then, in a way Jaina thought she should probably recognize.

“You gave your word,” he said curtly. 

“Yes. As was necessary to secure your aid.” 

The vein in his forehead pulsed. The muscles in his jaw worked. The men behind him shifted their weight, glowless eyes darting around under shining helmets— 

“So death has robbed you of your honor as well.” 

At last, the Dark Lady looked over her shoulder. Then, slowly, she shifted her feet and turned to face him, and when she spoke there was _power_ in her voice.

**“People of Lordaeron. Of Quel’thalas. What use have you for** **_honor?”_ **

Flames crackled. Ghouls chattered in the distance. The living breathed. The dead did not. 

It seemed to bother the Grand Marshall, that quiet. That waiting. He looked at the Dark Lady, the traitor Dreadlord, the Frostwitch, at the free undead— 

The Frostwitch could see him realizing it. How outnumbered he was. How tired his men were. 

She saw the moment he decided to try it anyway. She saw his gaze snap back to the Dark Lady, saw his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword and his jaw move as if to speak— 

—to _command_ — 

So she threw a frostbolt at him. 

Or— _tried to_ , but— her magic didn’t want to be small, didn’t want to be _precise—_ it wanted to burst forth and howl and _tear—_

One moment Garithos was drawing his sword. The next he was stumbling back, icicles jutting out of the gaps in his armor. And his throat. They must have frozen the flesh around them, because for all the flapping of his mouth, there was no breath. No sound. 

Until he fell. His armor rang loud against the cobblestones. 

Burning eyes turned to look at her— 

Swords rasped out of scabbards— 

**_“Hold,”_ **said the Dark Lady. 

The undead stilled. 

The living shifted uneasily, back to back, brandishing their shining steel… 

**“This city belongs to the free undead… as do** ** _all_** **the plaguelands. Seek refuge with your Alliance,** **humans. Tell them that the people of Lordaeron have _reclaimed_ Lordaeron. Tell them that we mean them no harm… save for that which is necessary to defend ourselves.” **

More shifting. And _breathing._ It would be so easy to stop, to silence... 

_“Captain…”_ said one of the living— and another wet his lips, and stopped staring at Varimathras to instead look at the Dark Lady. 

The Dark Lady stared back. 

He went a little pale. 

The Frostwitch wondered exactly how many things she had forgotten about being alive. 

When she focused again, the living were… well. Not _relaxing._ Their swords were still out. But they didn’t look ready to attack, anymore, and they were following their captain between the masses of free undead, out of the square.

“Anya,” said the Dark Lady. 

A shadow leapt down from atop a nearby statue, and landed almost silently at her side. The Frostwitch saw red eyes, long ears… 

“See them _escorted_ to safety. Discreetly.” 

Anya nodded, and darted away. Keeping to the shadows of the broken walls and buildings…

And then the Dark Lady turned to the Frostwitch. Watched her with those burning eyes. 

Oh no. Was that— had that not been the moment to strike? 

She bowed her head. 

“Forgive me. He was going to attack. He was— close, to you.” 

“Jaina.” 

Oh. She had forgotten again. 

“Stop.” 

What?

“Stop _bowing.”_

She did. 

Looked the Dark Lady in the eye again. Those eyes seemed to be considering her, for a moment... 

Then: 

“Do not bow to me. Do not bow to _anyone._ Ever again. **_Any of you!_ ** _”_

Her voice rang out through the square. 

The Frostwitch (Jaina _Jaina_ her name was _**Jaina** _ —) didn’t know why she was shouting. It wasn’t as if anyone _wasn’t_ already listening to her. 

But it was nice to hear the strength of her voice. So many of them could only manage rasps and gurgles. Too many of them could no longer speak at all. 

**“Lords and kings and** **_nobles_ ** **have failed you. You owe them** **_nothing.”_ **

Oh. 

...yes, that… 

Yes. 

How far would _He_ have gotten without _Prince_ before his name?

Then again… how far would _they_ get without _her?_

The Frostwitch forced her throat and lungs to take in air. Something sort of… _whistled_ as she did, inside her chest. 

She’d have to remember to look into that. 

The Dark Lady must have heard her breathe, for the sound summoned her burning gaze. 

“We…” The Frostwitch stopped. Took another, deeper breath. “We owe _you._ We owe you our freedom. Will you not be our Queen?” 

Those crimson eyes burned brighter. Then they turned from Jaina, to survey the others— score upon score of ghouls and geists, swollen wights, withered zombies and hulking, oozing abominations, all looking to her for guidance. For purpose. 

**“I will wear no crown,"** said the Dark Lady. **"** **Nor** **will I claim a debt for restoring that which should never have been taken in the first place... b** **ut I will gladly lead you in bringing a fitting _end_ to the one who did this to us." **

Quiet. Stillness. 

Then someone said: “Vengeance?” 

And the Dark Lady grew darker, eyes blazing bright through the black mist that writhed out of her, fangs pale and deadly— 

_" **Vengeance.”**_

The word echoed through the square for a moment, cold and hard— and then it was echoed a hundredfold. 

**_“VENGEANCE!”_ **cried the free undead, and those who could not simply shouted or shrieked or howled. Soon it was all blended into a ragged, rattling roar… but it was not entirely wordless. 

Many of them were chanting _Dark Lady._

She raised a hand then, steel claws shining in the firelight.

One by one, they fell silent. 

“Varimathras,” she said. “Proudmoore. Belmont. Come."

Then she turned and strode past the pile of ash that had been Balnazzar, up the steps of the keep. 

The Frostwitch made to follow... and then paused. Watched Sylvanas' graceful stride. Looked down at her bare blue feet, and the cobblestones a few inches below them. 

She... wasn't exactly sure how she was doing that. Or how to _stop_ doing it. And she didn't know what would happen if she kept the Dark Lady waiting. So she kept floating. 

Halfway up the stairs, she saw a slight figure emerge from the shadows of the broken gates and walk to the Dark Lady's side. Once again there were long ears, a dark hood... and glowing red eyes peering out of a pale face. There were many other elves, among the crowd, and none of them had those eyes. 

Another banshee, then? 

“This,” said the Dark Lady, “is Ranger-Captain Areiel.” 

The Frostwitch floated over the final step, Varimathras lumbering beside her. Up behind them came a human man, his skin mottled grey and yellow, rotting away from his mouth and cheekbones in patches, baring blackened gums and cracked teeth. What remained of his hair hung thin and limp, a greenish tinge to it. He wore armor similar to that of many others, similar to that of Garithos’ men. 

“Belmont,” said the Dark Lady. 

He straightened up. Saluted. 

“You have met other soldiers of Lordaeron?” 

“Yes, milady.” There was a slur to his voice. 

“Gather them in the square. Identify the least decayed, those most capable of receiving and interpreting orders. They will form the backbone of our forces.” 

“It will be done.” 

She nodded, and he hurried down the steps. 

“Varimathras.” 

“My Lady.” He bowed. It was interesting, to see something so large bow. 

“I assume you have some way of discerning the intelligence of your former minions?” 

“But of course.”

“Use it. We cannot —and _will not_ — persist as a mindless rabble enthralled to a few _puppeteers_. We must organize. We must know who we can call upon to aid in doing so.” 

“My Lady is wise.” 

“Your Lady is _watchful.”_

The Dreadlord’s craggy face contorted into a smile. “Yes. And her servants are powerful.” 

He looked at the Frostwitch as he said that. 

She wondered what he wanted. She doubted it was anything good. 

“And your wings are thin,” she found herself murmuring. “And exposed.” 

His smile widened into a grin, full of needle-sharp teeth. “You seem to be handling this all very well, Frostwitch.” 

“That’s not my name,” said the Frostwitch. 

“Is it not? My apologies.” 

**_“Go,_ **demon.” The Dark Lady had a hint of Wail in it. 

Varimathras bowed again, and stepped back— just enough so that when he turned, his wings came very close to hitting the Frostwitch’s face. 

_Jaina’s_ face. 

(But was it, still?) 

She thought she might want to puncture those wings. It was hard to tell. Subtle. Most of her feelings were, now. Other than rage. 

The Frostwitch turned. 

Areiel was gone— and the Dark Lady was watching her. 

“You are free." That voice was quiet, again. "You need not obey me, if you do not wish to.” 

_Free._

What did that even mean, now? 

Where could she go? Dalaran had burned. She remembered seeing the smoke. So its people were either gone, or here somewhere. Free undead. 

But... before Dalaran, there was… _had been_ … another place. Yes.

Large, carpeted halls. A bronze anchor on sea-green cloth. Crackling fires and hot tea. Shelves full of books. Rain-streaked windows, and a city below. A city on the sea. 

_Across_ the sea? 

But she had no idea how to get back there. 

And… would she go, if she could? 

She had cleared a path for Sylvanas, through the enthralled. She had helped take down Balnazzar. How might it have gone, without her? 

How might they fare against _Him,_ without her? 

And if she went off alone, and _He_ found her—

No. 

“Free,” she rasped. 

“Yes.” Sylvanas had come closer, at some point, and was watching her closely. “Free to choose what to do. Where to go.” 

“Who to follow,” said Jaina. 

“...Yes.”

“Then I choose you. My Lady.” 

Sylvanas stared at her a moment longer. Then she turned to look out across the square. Or perhaps the fires beyond it. Or perhaps the smoke-filled sky. 

“You may come to regret that,” she said quietly. “But I will endeavor to be worthy of it.” 

...what? 

But she _freed_ them. Why would she think she wasn't… 

Well. Yesterday the Frostwitch hadn’t remembered her own name. 

(Jaina. _Jaina_ hadn’t remembered her own name—) 

There was much she didn't know, still.

“You are not the only sorcerer among us,” said Sylvanas. “There are some with magical talent. And some who are nothing _but_ magical talent, now.” 

“...liches.” 

Those glowing eyes flicked sideways to watch her again. “Yes.” 

“Is that… am I? A lich?”

“You would know better than I.”

“I don’t.”

“So find out.” The Dark Lady turned to face her fully. “We found a ritual chamber of some kind in the eastern wing of the keep. And a few necromancers within it. We even took some alive. They, that chamber, and all the materials within are yours to study, now." 

Oh. 

_Necromancer._ She’d heard that before, a long time ago. Whispered behind closed doors. Among tall bookshelves. There was a name… out of reach. 

...wait.

“Alive?” she said. 

“And _unrepentant,”_ hissed the Dark Lady. 

It took her a moment to remember that word. 

And a moment to calm down once she did. 

The Dark Lady had tasks for the others. She must have one for the Frostwitch, too. It was time to focus. Time to _not_ get lost, to not go around freezing and breaking things. 

Which was easy to know, and harder to do. Or... _not_ do.

“Thank you,” she said, when the frost had stopped creeping. “I... will learn what I can." 

The Dark Lady said nothing for a moment, but stopped watching her. So maybe that was what she wanted to hear. 

“We are all creatures of magic, now— but too few of us understand that magic. I need you to gather those with knowledge of sorcery. To familiarize yourself with them.” 

The Frostwitch considered. 

_Dalaran._ She… didn’t quite _remember_ living there, but she knew that she _had._

And if there were other former mages, among the free undead, then perhaps she had known some of them. Maybe they could tell her who Jaina Proudmoore was. Had been. 

Maybe they could tell her of the city on the sea. 

“I can do that,” she said. 

Out over the walls of the square, a rooftop caved in on itself, spewing sparks up into the smoke. 

There were very few rooftops _not_ burning, now. 

It struck her as odd that there were still rooftops _left_ to burn. He must have taken the city very quickly. They must not have known what was happening until it was too late to truly fight. 

“The fires,” she said. “Should I...?" 

The Dark Lady was silent, for a moment. 

Then: 

“Yes,” she said, voice flat. “That might be for the best.” 

Hm. 

The Frostwitch almost bowed again, before she remembered. 

The Dark Lady just… seemed like someone you bowed to. 

_Sylvanas._

_Ranger-General._

She remembered knowing those names, but not what they _meant._

As she floated back down the steps, she wondered if someone else might. If someone knew who their Queen _was,_ beneath the armor and the fury and the Wail. 

Because she was _someone,_ beneath it all— the Frostwitch had seen that much. She had heard that voice go soft and soothing, had felt that hand close around hers with less-than-crushing force… 

And if the Dark Lady could be more than the weapon Arthas had made her, then maybe the Frostwitch could be… well. Jaina. 

Whoever that was. 

Something to consider. Something to keep the memories from spilling over.

She let some of the blizzard spill from the hollow in her chest, and threw it at the nearest fire. 

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for some tragic backstory! <3  
> Other than Nor the Arrow, this is the most I've explored Forsaken feels. Lmk what you think in the comments, and what's most compelling to you about the Forsaken? I'm kinda winging it here.


End file.
